Dodge
by WorldsGreatestDefective
Summary: He wasn't sure how it happened. One minute he was scraping by in Crime Alley, and the next he was living the good life in Wayne Manor. The way Jason Todd saw it, someone was going to end up regretting this whole thing. Takes place soon after Bruce takes Jason in and up through his six-month training as Robin. T for Jay's foul mouth.
1. Chapter 1

It has to be a world record: found in an alley, adopted two weeks later, and, judging by the way the vein in Bruce's head is popping out, dead in three.

I had a good run, I guess.

Ever since he spotted me jacking the tires off his car in Crime Alley, Bruce Wayne has worked to get me into a whole normal home life… thing. What the hell he means by normal, I have no damn clue. The man dresses up like a bat all hours of the night and gets waited on by a penguin crossed with Mother Goose.

Okay, so, Alfred is fine. Most of the time he's totally cool, but since it's partly his fault that Bruce's head is about to explode all over me, I reserve the right to call him Mother Penguin.

Maybe trying on Batman's utility belt while Bruce was at some dinner was a bad idea. And maybe putting on the cowl and cape over my t-shirt and jeans were even dumber. And _maybe_ using Dick's old Robin Cycle and high-tailing it out of the cave for a joyride was kinda stupid. Or really stupid. At least I came back right away.

Well, first I crashed the bike and then I walked back into the cave. I should have known the damn place had cameras, and of course the damn butler had eyes on every room in the house at all times, the alien robot that he is.

All Alfie had to do was shake a finger at me himself and keep it quiet, then none of this would be happening. Instead, Bruce is practically purple as he tries to keep from shouting so loud he breaks glass. At least, that's what he looks like he's doing. That, or he's two steps from shitting himself and he's about to burst from the effort. Neither one would surprise me.

"You want to explain what happened in your _own_ words?" he manages.

"Anything I say can and will be used against me." Maybe not the smartest reply, but it seems fitting.

Bruce slams his hand down on the desk and I swear my stomach hits the floor.

"I'm not going to ask you again." Though it's not exactly a threat, it's not exactly comforting, either.

When I first got here, Bruce laid out several rules from me and mentioned or implied consequences. Most of them are pretty typical, at least from what I've read in recent books and seen on the TV. I'm supposed to mind my mouth, no more smoking, no more stealing, and overall do as I'm told. So long as I do that, I can see more than the four walls of my designated bedroom. He's never outright said anything about doing more than that, but the purple of his face tells me he's two steps from throwing me through the wall or at least giving my ass an unholy beating, and I have zero desire to deal with either.

"It just seemed like a good—"

"Idea at the time?" he finishes for me. If possible, he gets even more purple. Hell, he looks like that girl from Willy Wonka who got turned into a blueberry. "You're going to have to try harder than that."

I wish he hadn't said that. I'm not a dumb kid; I know I'm not. I do dumb things, but mostly its because I just decided not to think at the time or someone pushed my buttons. Telling me what to do is still one of those buttons. Telling me I have to try harder after I'm already trying plenty? Yeah, not happening.

Instead of _trying_ anything, I curse in more ways than I can count. I'm pretty sure something like "ass pirate" and "prick nozzle" came out along with the rest of the mess, but I can't be totally positive. All I know is that Bruce has finally had enough.

The vein doesn't exactly burst, but something else in him seems to. He lunges for me, and for a second I cringe thinking he is going to slap me right across the face. I have to force myself to keep eye contact with him, though the rest of me begins to brace for impact like I am the only one left on my side in a game of dodgeball against a 'roided-up psychopath.

Instead of hitting me, he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. Suddenly, we're face-to-face, and I can feel his angry breath against my cheeks. About a thousand thoughts seem to be running through his head and trying to make their way out of his mouth.

Then Alfie steps in. Weird how just an hour earlier he was totally against me, and now he's out to save me from torture.

"Master Bruce, perhaps we should all retire for the night and calm down. No good can come of short tempers."

"He needs to be dealt with," Bruce shoots back.

"We all need a good night's sleep," Alfred counters. "Any more of this tonight and I am certain someone will say or do something they may regret."

"Short of tearing off one of his limbs, I doubt anything I do now I'll regret after that stunt he pulled. What the hell was he thinking?!" he snaps at Alfred before turning back to me. "What the hell were you thinking?!"

"What the hell were _you_ thinking?!" Now it's my turn to snap, and I'd bet good money my face is now almost as purple as his is. "You're the damn idiot that took in a street-trash mess and you think I'm just going to sit around your huge fucking house and nod like a puppet when you tell me to stay put?! I heard on the radio there was a police stand-off and you were busy schmoozing Wayne Enterprises investors. Someone needed to help! And I figured you're only half of what you are because of your stupid gadgets, anyway!"

I'm an idiot. Yelling at an irate Batman is probably the dumbest idea in the world. I'm an idiot with the worst death wish ever. Worse yet, though, is I don't believe a word that I'm saying but I can't stop myself from saying it. I'm mad and I can't explain why, I'm confused but I don't know what the hell I'm confused about, and I just wish Bruce would finish yelling at me or knock me to next Tuesday so I can go to bed and forget I don't belong here.

Only he doesn't. He stands there and stares at me for a while, the purple of his face fading to red, then pink, then finally back to its normal pale. As the blood drains away, he keeps his eyes on me. I shift uncomfortably under the his stare. I almost preferred the angry vein to this creepy quiet.

"You need to go upstairs, Jason," he orders me. Though he's worlds quieter, it sounds worse. Way worse. So much worse that I forget whatever I'm angry about and do as I'm told.

Halfway up the stairs, I realize this is it. I've pushed him past the point of tolerance and he's going to kick me out.

Now I wish I had just let him throw me through a wall.

As soon as I'm in my room, I close the door and collapse against it. Everything that happened in the last couple of hours hits me at once and I kind of want to puke. For three whole weeks I had a new family. A new dad, a new grandfather-penguin-goose person, and a house bigger than the old apartment complex I used to live in. I went from living in a condemned building on my own with maybe one meal a day to having a bed the size of a boat and three square meals. Whatever square means.

Of course I fucked it all up. Like I said: world record.

No point in dwelling.

I grab the suitcase Bruce bought me to help pack up my things from my old place and start piling my stuff into it. I try to keep most of what they bought me out of it in case they want to return it and get their money back, but some things I can't get rid of. Most of it is clothes for the winter, but there's also this really cool pocketknife Bruce got me when I first came to the manor. I know it probably cost more than the rent my parents used to pay, but it seems like it's worth more than money.

It's the first real gift anyone got me since my mom died last year. To be honest, it's probably the first gift anyone got me since she started using real bad four years ago.

I stare at the magnifying glass and clock parts of it when there's a knock at my door. Not even thinking about the mess my room is now in, I call out, "Yeah?"

I expect Alfred, still prim as he usually is, to come in and tell me that it would be prudent for me to brush my teeth, take a leak, and get my ass in bed. In so many words. Except it's Bruce. For a second I think he's changed his mind in not killing me tonight, but his face still seems relaxed.

Actually, it seems exhausted. I know the feeling.

At first he looks at me, but then his eyes land on the bag behind me and the pile of crap I have around it. Suddenly, he looks anxious.

How the hell did I just make friggin' _Batman_ anxious? I didn't even say anything!

"Going somewhere?" he asks, though he doesn't sound particularly pissed.

"I thought I'd beat you to the punch," I shrug.

He stares at me for a while, then squares his jaw. I know what's coming. Sure, I'm surprised it's happening so damn soon, but then again maybe I'm not. I'm almost more surprised it took three weeks for him to realize what a screw-up I am.

He gestures to the bed and together we sit down. It's like in those movies when someone is about to be broken up with. I've just never seen a movie where it's happened in an "I don't want to be your parent anymore" sort of way. First time for everything?

Bruce even starts off the whole thing as cliche as possible. He takes a deep breath and, with that fake sad look people get before kicking someone to the curb, he says, "We need to talk."

World. Fucking. Record.

* * *

**Ah, me and my late-night rambling writing. I figured the six-month period between Jason being taken in by Bruce and becoming Robin had some interesting adjustments. Why not write them down? I'm not quite sure yet how I see their father-son relationship going, but I guess that will come with time. For now, I hope you all liked my random writing. **

**-Defective**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! On to chapter 2!**

* * *

This is it. I wonder how much the road burn will hurt from the Wayne Manor driveway when I get my ass kicked to the curb. Can't be worse than if the Bentley is parked in the front. I'd hate to land face-first into that monster. Actually, it _could_ be worse—it could be the Batmobile.

"We need to talk." The four worst words in the history of ever, and they could only mean one thing: _So much for being adopted_.

"I know," I say before Bruce can finish. "Look, you really don't have to say anything. I get it. You made a mistake. I was the wrong kid to pick up. I know. I'll be out of your hair by morning, and you don't even have to count the silver. I promise. I'm not stealing anything."

"Silver? Jay, what are you talking about?"

"I mean I know what you're going to say and you don't have to worry about feeling like a bastard. Just give me another half hour, tops, and I'll be out of your hair. I don't know what kind of legal crap you might need to pull to unadopt me, but I'll do whatever you need and not make you look bad. Cross my heart."

I could have kept going, but the heaviest pair of hands suddenly rest on my shoulders and stop me from talking period. I'm pretty sure Bruce's meat hooks are at least twenty pounds each, so when they're on your shoulders you kind of have to shut up and look the man in the eye.

Not that doing that was easy, either.

"What are you talking about?" he asks. Weird how someone so big could sound so damn calm and comforting. Especially when just a few minutes ago he was ready to tear me a new one.

"I mean I can leave you, Alfred, and Dick alone to live your normal 'Kumbaya' life without me. Look, it was fun while it lasted, but we both know I'm not—"

"Stop."

His voice was somewhere between an assuring whisper and a low growl. My head snaps up at the sound, his eyes holding mine in a stern stare.

"Before you finish any of that, I want you to know that I would never unadopt you. Not unless you were unhappy here and wanted to go somewhere else, of course. Alfred, Dick, and I would hate it, but we want you to be happy. Do you understand that?"

"Not really," I shrug.

Bruce sighs, wiping his hand over his face. "I get the feeling I could talk to you about that until I'm blue in the face, but something tells me that part is just going to take time. We're still trying to get a sense of one another. That's what I came up here to talk to you about. _Not_ to get rid of you, but to get a few things straight."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Well, I guess we got some of the first part out of the way. Jason, I need you to understand that I may lose my temper sometimes, but that never means I don't care about you. I lost it tonight, and I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. You deserved to be punished, but downstairs was…"

"If you say that was abuse or something, I might actually clock you upside the head, boss," I interrupt before he gets a chance to finish it, himself. "I took a motorcycle out without permission, left without asking, crashed the damn thing, and tried to sneak back inside. I think you're allowed to yell and almost blow a gasket. Trust me, I've been through a lot—a _lot—_worse than whatever that was."

I sigh, looking down at my hands before adding, "Which is why I'm no good for you. I'm not the kind of kid you need around here, B."

He reaches his hand out, but seems to think better of it before it lands on my back, instead settling it at his side. I can't tell if I'm disappointed or relieved by it. A little of both, I guess.

"Bruce, on top of all that, I said some really shit things to you downstairs. Like, bad. You had a right to be mad at me. You still do. And I have no right to be here because I know I said some of it just to upset you, and I know it won't be the last time. I felt bad, so I wanted _you_ to feel bad. What kind of a person acts like that?"

"Plenty do, son," he assures me. The last word catches whatever words I had left in my throat, keeping my arguments down with the swirling bile in my gut. "Jay, like I said, we're still getting to know each other. And, like _you_ said, you've been through a lot. That doesn't make you unworthy of anything, but it does mean we need to try to be a little patient with each other. It also means having a firm grasp on boundaries around here."

"Like, no means no?" I ask.

He arches an eyebrow at me. It's weird, but as embarrassed and anxious as I get when he gives me that look, part of me is happy. It's dumb and I couldn't explain it if I tried, but for a whole second it's like every other kid who just said something dumb to their dad.

"In a way, I guess, but I don't want you making light of this situation or even that phrase. Clear?"

"Crystal, boss."

"That's another thing: downstairs, in training, I'll allow you to call me that. I know you don't mean any disrespect by it. In fact, I can tell you mean well by it. But, up here, I'm not your boss, I'm not your chief. I'm certainly not champ any time. I'll accept B from time to time, but make sure to keep it respectful. You don't need to call me anything other than Bruce if you don't want to—"

"I'm sure when I'm pissed I can think of a lot of names…"

Again that look, and this time he glares down at me so hard I wonder how more villains don't piss themselves when he's wearing the cowl. Downstairs was worse, but up here with me calm, I can see how so many criminals just whine for their mommies when he comes around. Still, another part of me (which is starting to get damn annoying) tells me that I don't have anything to worry about. Not really. His tone, as firm as it is, eases my nerves a little and I relax in spite of how much I try not to.

"Sorry, Bruce. Just trying to lighten the mood or… something."

"Put the conversation on your terms?" he asks me. "Do what you can to control the situation?"

This time, it's my turn to send him a look, though he only smiles back. "Could you not psychoanalyze me before you tell me how dead I am for downstairs?"

I'm surprised when Bruce actually laughs at that, and even more so when his hand does rest on my back, patting the tense muscles between my shoulder blades. I relax even more at his touch, even lean into his hand to feel the comfort and warmth that radiates from it. God, I don't understand people who take this kind of thing for granted: this whole kind parent thing. Then again, I guess if you've had something your whole life, you really don't know any better.

Bruce pulls his hand back and lays it over his lap. Once the warmth is gone, I find myself missing it, and hate like hell that I do. Weak. I've gotten damn soft living the good life for all of three weeks. God, in a month I might as well be wearing one of those English schoolboy outfits and whining about tea cakes.

"You want to tell me why you keep making those faces?" Bruce asks, breaking me out of my daze.

"Huh?" _Eloquent, Todd._

"Nothing," he says, his smile falling a little though his eyes don't change. "All right, no more psychoanalyzing for the moment. And, you're not dead. In a certain level of trouble, but not dead. Some of it I can forgive off the bat—

"Heh, _bat_."

"—since I'm sure my less-than-composed performance didn't help matters."

"Well," I start, "it wasn't awesome being yelled at that close, but it's not like you're dangerous as Bruce Wayne. Still, sorry for pissing you off that much. I kind of have that effect on people. Not that I thought you were going to do anything like he did…"

I trail off at the memory of my father and what he would have done if he were on the receiving end of my idiot mouth and dumbass idea. It takes two seconds for me to realize I probably would be sporting a few good bruises, especially a shiner across the face or a split lip for the sassing. He hated that.

"Jason, I would never, _ever_—"

"I know," I stop him, shaking my head. "Yet another reason you're better than him or me or anything like that. I'm a born screwup and you're going to see it sooner or later."

"I haven't seen anything like that since the day I met you. Don't argue, either," he adds, his voice low when I take in a breath to do just that. "I don't care about the tires, I don't care about the attitude you had or the language you used, and I don't care about the smoking now that you've quit. It's in the past. More than that, you're eleven years old and you're allowed to make mistakes. It's part of growing up. I made plenty when I was your age, so did Dick, and you will make more than just tonight. We just need to get you to a place to where you understand that it's not going to mean an eviction for messing up. And, I need to get used to having a preteen, again."

"So… how does this work, then?" I ask suddenly, the last of my tension leaving. My posture slumps next to him, and he replaces his hand on my back.

"How about we play it by ear a little? I'd go with what worked for Dick, but as Alfred and Leslie have both pointed out to me, you're very different. That's not a bad thing, but it just means that what worked for him and what still works for him won't work for you. For now, I want you to put your stuff back in your drawers and closet—neatly—and for you to go to bed. You're going to be up at 6:00 sharp for training. After a few laps to clear your head, you're going to write me a four page paper by hand on motorcycle safety and manners. That last part you can thank Alfred for."

"The traitor…"

Bruce stands, shaking his head at me and giving me one last pat on the back. "It's better than my idea. I was going to have you research motorcycle fatalities."

"I can't tell if that's cool or horrible…"

Another laugh erupts from Bruce. "If you had any doubts about whether or not you belong here, I think that response alone should give you your answer. No, manners it is. Could do you some good, chum."

I have to stifle a smile at how stupidly happy I feel at the nickname, especially when he ruffles my hair. He stands there in front of me, and in the dim light of my bedroom lamp he really could pass as my dad. Not like he's a lookalike of Willis Todd, but I mean I could pass as his kid. Hell, if he weren't Bruce Wayne with his whole life plastered all over the tabloids, I'm sure we could convince people I was.

But he is Bruce Wayne, and we can't.

"Come on, clean up and get to bed. You have an early morning ahead of you."

"And I'm going to make you regret every minute of it so you never wake me up early again," I groan. Even with my threat in the air, I get up to do as I'm told, careful to fold my clothes just right so Alfred doesn't pitch a fit. Then again, considering all the "help" he gave Bruce tonight, I can't help but leave a shirt sleeve untucked just a little.

To think, revenge on my old man used to mean spitting in his beer.

Without a word, Bruce steps toward my piles of stuff and helps me clean the mess. He leaves the trinkets out for me to put away, allowing me a few spots of privacy, and just focused on the obvious locations for my clothes. In no time, my whole room is clean and it's like I was never two steps from running away.

"You didn't have to help me," I say. Then, remembering myself, I add, "Thanks, though."

"Any time," he says.

And I know he means it.


	3. Chapter 3

A very short chapter for me. Actually, almost criminally short, but I'm attempting to get back into the swing of things. It's been a crazy few months! Completely and absolutely bonkers, in mostly good ways but still... Anyway, here's the next chapter! I'm hoping to have more in this story and my other stories soon as I'm taking this whole week off from my normal 9-5(ish)!

Without further ado, onward!

* * *

I'm just going to say this once: I'm not a morning person. Not unless you count staying up all night and happening to see morning. I don't do _early_. So when Alfred opened my door at 6:00 to get me out of bed, he shouldn't have been all that surprised when I had a few not-so-nice words to say about it. Probably should have gotten up when it was him coming to get me, though…

Because now I have to deal with Bruce.

He opens the door without so much as a knock, and before I can even think about turning on my best Alfred impression to call him rude, he pulls me out of bed and over his shoulder.

"What the hell?!" I yell. Not shriek. Definitely not shriek.

"Do you know what time it is?" he growls.

"Uh…"

"6:10. You were told 6:00 sharp. It wasn't a request, it wasn't a favor, it wasn't an option. 6:00." I hang, my waist bent at his shoulder, until his arms wrap around my legs and I can feel him lowering me head-first to the ground.

Okay, _now_ I'm awake.

"Hey! Bruce, stop! I'm up! You're going to drop me!"

"Maybe a drop on the head will knock some sense into you. When I tell you to do something, it is in your best interest and often just flat-out for your well-being to do as you're told when you're told to do it. I don't talk for the sake of hearing my own voice, and I mean for you to listen to me. Do you understand?"

The sun is barely up and my head is swimming. He's lucky I can understand where the hell I am right now, but I manage to yell, "Yes! Okay, I get it! Can you put me down now?"

He lowers me closer to the ground in a sharp release of my legs. It doesn't last longer than a second, but damn it if I don't nearly piss myself. "ON MY FEET! PUT ME DOWN ON MY FEET!"

For one hellish second, I swear I'm going to drop and split my head open on the shiny hardwood floors. Bet Alfred would shit a canary at my brains all over the place. Just before I drop entirely, Bruce catches my ankles and flips me over to place my socked feed over the brain-free floor. I don't even get to catch my breath before he's in front of my face, almost nose-to-nose with me.

"When I say something, I mean it."

"Yes, sir," I mutter.

"You just added another lap and another page to your paper," he says. I open my mouth to protest, but his scowl keeps me quiet. Guess Bruce Wayne isn't much of a morning person, either.

I hang my head, torn between wanting to curse at him, kick my bed, and just crawl back under my covers. Then I feel a heavy hand land on my shoulder. When I look up, Bruce's scowl is gone and he almost looks nice again.

"Come on, chum. I think Alfred has some bacon he's been saving for you. Something tells me you're going to need a good breakfast to get through the day."

"Your fault. The bacon's probably cold now, too," I mumble.

"Alfred? Let something get cold? Sacrilege. Maybe I did drop you on your head…"

He puts a hand on my head, faking an inspection for damage, and I bat it away. "Jerk. You enjoy torturing me. I'll be glad when Dick gets back from Titan Tower just to get you off my back a bit."

Bruce just laughs and leads me out of the warmth of my bedroom, down to the smells of bacon and and eggs wafting in from the kitchen. As soon as my nose catches a whiff, my stomach almost leaps out to attack the food piling on the plates. After living in this place for the past few weeks, it's hard to imagine how I survived off of a tin can of sardines and some stale crackers for a week once. Not one of my best times.

"Ah, the young master is awake," Alfred says as we head to the kitchen table.

"Thanks to a near heart attack from this guy," I gesture to Bruce, who just shakes his head and goes to his coffee and newspaper.

"It's nothing you didn't deserve. And you learned a valuable lesson," says Bruce.

"Yeah," I reply, "Keep my door locked."

Alfred gives the most proper of snorts as we take a seat at the breakfast table. So weird to have more than one table. Heck, it's weird to have one real table to begin with. Before I get a chance to think about the differences in the apartment Bruce took me from to the Wayne kitchen alone, Alfred sets large, heaping plates in front of me and my rescuer.

"There. Two eggs and three bacon strips each with a side of toast, I think, will keep you both up and ready to face the day," he says. I look down to see four perfectly crispy strips on my plate then over to Bruce's three, and look up, surprised at Alfred's inability to count. He just sends me a wink and goes back to his duties.

Traitor or not, I love Alfred. I'm deciding that now. Give a kid from the streets extra food, and you've basically got, "_He'll fight for me or die trying_" written on your forehead forever.

Bruce pretends not to notice the difference, instead focusing on the newspaper in his hands. "Looks like Gordon is having a rough week."

"The Commissioner?" I ask, earning a nod. "What's going on with him?"

"Not so much what's happening with him as the recent wave that's been hitting the city. That incident last night you heard about that had you speeding to the rescue—"

"Before I sped my face straight into the asphalt? What about it?" I ask.

"It looks to be something more than just common thugs with a hare-brained scheme—"

"I still don't get that saying."

Bruce levels me with a look at the interruption then continues reading in silence. For now, I'm kept mostly out of the loop of the big crime sprees. Every now and then, he lets me help with research and, if I'm really lucky, Alfred lets me help with com work or Dick calls me up for a quick background check or something, but mostly I'm in the dark. Part of training, I guess. They don't want me too in-the-know about the bullshit around this city.

As if I don't know enough about it already.

Still, Bruce has this thing about making sure I have a "normal" childhood. It's been the biggest source of our fighting since we first met. I haven't been normal since I was born, and I doubt he'd know the meaning of the word if it hit him in the ass. I told him as much once, and I swear he was really close to showing me how normal a Gotham parent he could be. The hard-up folks around here don't mess around when it comes to mouthy brats like me. At least I'm realistic about what I am, though.

After a few minutes of stretched silence, I give up on the big man giving me any more information and pull out the entertainment section of the newspaper. A few movie and book reviews, something about a new play, the re-opening of the museum we met at for the second time, and comic strips. I glance over them, halfway entertained by the more sarcastic ones and somewhat annoyed by the slapstick or pretentious ones.

At the fourth time of me mentally yelling the F-bomb at another idiot comic writer for misunderstanding the human condition (Yeah, I can be smart sometimes… screw you.) Bruce clears his throat. I look up to see his stern face, but an unmistakable twinkle invades his deep blue eyes.

"What have I told you about those comics?"

"Only read the ones worth reading?"

"So why do you have this miserable, death-to-all look on your face?" he asks.

I shrug, flipping the page. "Because I expected more of Foxtrot today. Low hanging fruit is not their style."

"I'll get you a Calvin and Hobbes collection. I think you'd enjoy that."

I have no idea what he means, but a surge of happiness spreads through me. A gift. A stupid gift, and it's based on something I might actually like. I take a second to remember myself, to remember that it could just be some stupid present to appease me and keep me quiet, until finally I just remember my manners.

"Thanks. I could take a look, I guess."

Bruce nods, watching me for a little longer than he would if he fully believed me. Smug bastard knows everything. I turn my eyes down and eat my last strip of bacon, enjoying that I had one more than he did. Suck on that, Mr. Smugface. Still, all too soon it's finished and he's standing up.

"Ready for training?"

"Is that a trick question? Is this really training, or is this some punishment/torture thing you learned in some of your time in Amsterdam? I feel like I'm going to need a safety word."

He grins then strolls right out of the kitchen. I can't tell if he found what I said humorous, or if he's planning to torture me. I guess I have no choice but to find out.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews/favorites/follows definitely help me keep on track and let me know if this story (or other stories) are being enjoyed, so thank you so far for everything!

-Defective


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